


The Barber and the Librarian

by TheScholarlyStrumpet (equipoise)



Series: G-Rated Tumblr Prompt-a-thon [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), The Legend of Barney Thomson (2015), The Long Midnight of Barney Thomson (Book)
Genre: Anyelle, Barnelle - Freeform, F/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:32:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4936105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equipoise/pseuds/TheScholarlyStrumpet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: Belle is the new librarian across the street from where Barney works. Every day he sees her pass by and makes up scenarios of how he could talk to her. One day, she enters the barber shop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Barber and the Librarian

Barney Thomson was not a smart man. Which is not to say he was not possessing of a rather fine mind. His mind, though tested more than once to some frightening extremes, had actually shown remarkable resilience and agility over the years. His was a mind that allowed for creativity of the highest degree in all areas that were hair-related. His was a mind that had somehow seen him through a crisis of Greek Tragedy proportions and come out the other side still mostly functional. But moreover, his was a mind built for flights of fancy rather than facts or figures. Unless that figure happened to be the petite and very appealing one of Miss Belle French, local librarian.

A few months ago, Belle French had moved to the small town outside of Glasgow, in which Barney was hiding (cleverly disguised as Barney Turner, barber by trade).  In that time, he had managed to make actual, audible conversation with her all of twice. But in those conversations, he had quickly gathered that she was a woman of nimble wit and high intelligence. She was also exceptionally beautiful and kind. In short, she was in a league so very far away, he couldn’t even see it from his.

What he could see, however, was the door to the town library. He had been awarded the spot by the window at the barber shop where he worked. The owner, an older man with several teeth missing in the front, recognized Barney’s clearly superior hair cutting skills and had relinquished it, immediately.

Barney had been quite proud of this until Miss French came to town.

Now, he almost regretted the enviable positioning if only because he got so distracted when the lovely little librarian came and went that he had nearly clipped more than one innocent ear.

History repeated itself on the Paul Newman (circa 1965) he was currently cutting, as Miss French stepped outside the library door one Tuesday evening. She bent slightly at the waist to lock it, her rather short flared skirt riding up a length of leg. The Newman chap was going on about some footie match that Barney couldn’t give a toss about. Usually, he’d have rejoined with some clever fact about the game of football actually being invented in Atlantis (before it sunk, of course). This time, his gaze was so stuck on the column of shapely leg ascending from Miss French’s sky-high heels that it was lucky Newman moved his head before his new cut made him more of a Van Gogh.

 Ever the consummate professional, Barney tore his eyes away from the library door, straightened the head of his customer and managed to save the day.

The bell above the door gave a little jingle as Barney was brushing down Mr. Newman.

“Be with you in a tick,” he called, without looking up. The owner of the place had already called off for the evening but Barney saw no reason not to take one last customer.

“Okay, thanks,” a familiar, distinctly feminine voice replied.

Barney’s blood turned to ice in his veins. And not the picturesque crystalline ice you find after a first snow. No, Barney’s blood became that sludgy gray muck that gets tracked around the streets after too many snows, around the time everyone is almost wishing it would just rain again. As Barney’s slushy blood plodded its way back to his extremities, he noticed that Paul Newman had pressed a few quid into his hand and taken his leave.

That left him alone in the shop with Miss French.

 _Help m’boab_ , he thought heartily as he turned towards her. He hoped his face was doing something vaguely welcoming and also nonchalant.

“M-miss French. What can, uh, I do for you?” he stammered out, at last.

Miss French smiled warmly at him. “Good evening, Mr. Turner. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”

Not in the conventional sense, no, he thought. Though, disturbed he most certainly was. And flustered, and just a wee bit sweaty. He self-consciously wiped his palms on his trousers. “Not at all. Not a bit. Though I admit, I’ve not had much experience with women.” He felt his face get hot as the words tripped over themselves on the way out of his mouth. “Cutting hair. Women’s hair,” he amended, lamely.

Belle blinked at him, her cheeks slightly pink as one hand came to her mouth. “Oh! Oh no, sorry. I didn’t stop by for a haircut. I’ve found a lovely girl down on Chutney St for that. She’s a wiz with this great mane of mine.” Belle gave a little laugh, like a tinkle of music.

Barney’s ears lapped it up and wanted more. He wondered what life might be like if he was the sort of man who could make Belle laugh on purpose. With an inward sigh, he tucked that thought away to torture himself with through yet another likely sleepless night.

“Oh. Aye. Erm. How can I help you, then?”

“Well, the library is hosting a small fundraiser in a couple of weeks. Semi-formal. No loud music or vulgar dancing, I promise.” Belle gave a little wink and smiled possibly the most endearing smile he’d seen grace her face, yet. And that was a tough contest. She held out some pieces of paper he had not until now noticed that she was carrying. “I was wondering if I could leave a couple flyers here? Maybe post one in the window? If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

Barney stared stupidly at the flyers in her delicate little hand. Then he remembered that this was, in fact, a conversation and it was apparently his turn to answer. “Um, yeah. Yes. I don’t see why not. I’ll have to ask the owner about posting one in the window, o’ course. But you can leave some on the table, there.” He nodded to the small, ugly table by the magazine rack.

“Great!” She turned to deposit the pile and Barney did his best not to watch her bend over. Or at least not to let her see him watch her bend over. It was a compromise to good manners.

“Okay, well, thanks! Good night, Mr. Turner!” She smiled again and Barney’s mucky, sludgy, icy veins melted entirely.

“Barney, please. Um. Call me Barney?” He managed to say. At least he’d get to hear his name on her lips.

“Well then, you ought to call me Belle,” she rejoined.

“It’s a deal.” He felt quite chuffed. He’d gotten to first name basis with a living goddess and it had only taken the better part of the summer. By this time next year, perhaps he’d have worked up the nerve to ask her down the boozer with him. Though, he wasn’t counting on it. “Good night, Mi- uh, Belle.”

“Good night, Barney.”

Oh yes, he very much liked the sound of that. Belle French saying _Barney_. That would get him through quite a few lonely evenings, that would.

As she stepped back to the doorway, Belle lingered for a moment, nibbling her lower lip.

Barney pretended to be cleaning his cutting area, surreptitiously stealing glances at her in the mounted mirror.

“Barney?” she broke the silence.

“Hm?” he looked up, eager for her to stay but already exhausted by the effort of appearing at all competent or smooth in her presence.

“The fundraiser… well, it is a bit formal and… everyone gets to bring a… a plus one. You know, a date.” She swayed closer to where he stood behind the barber chair. “I was just wondering if, perhaps, you might like to go? With me?”

Barney Thomson must have died. Somewhere back in Glasgow, in the old shop, with a pair of rusty scissors in his hand. He must have died and through some celestial bureaucratic mistake, gone to heaven. Because stunningly beautiful young women did not ask him to be their date to semi-formal events. In fact, he was pretty sure the last thing any beautiful woman had said to him had had something to do with moving out of the way so she could get a view of the much better looking man behind him. He found he was gripping the headrest of the seat in front of him so tightly that his knuckles creaked.

Belle was looking at him curiously. “I’m sorry… You’re probably married or involved with someone…”

Technically, he was still married. But he was pretty sure Agnes had divorced him in absentia after he’d been accused of serial murder and gone on the lam. And he couldn’t blame her in the slightest for that.

“No!” he spat out a little too loudly, as Belle looked about to leave.  “No, I’m… that is… No, I’m not involved. And yes. I would love to go. With you. To the… uh, the fundraiser.”

_To the moon. To hell and back. Frankly, I would follow you anywhere you chose to take me, Miss Belle French. Bat those blue eyes and I am yours for the taking._

Belle graced him with another dazzling smile and his knees went weak. “It’s next Friday at 6. Just come on over to the library after you close up here.” She closed the space between them, laying her hand lightly over his, where it was still strangling the non-sentient life out of the headrest. “I look forward to seeing you.”

“Likewise,” he stuttered out, around a tongue that was suddenly too big for his mouth.

They said good night once more and this time Belle did leave. But for several minutes more, Barney stood gripping his barber chair, trying to slow the racing beat of his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I have been reading the Barney Thomson books (which are fab, btw!) and I made some effort to stay within the style of the author. It's not a copycat, but I hope I might call it an homage :-P


End file.
